It was a scene both simple and tragical—­of that order in which in society the most horrible incidents occur without a sound, without a gesture, amid phrases of conventionality and in a festal framework!  Two of the spectators, at least, besides Julien, understood its importance-Ardea and Hafner.  For neither the one nor the other had failed to notice the relations between Madame Steno and Maitland, much less her position with regard to Gorka.  The writer, the grand seigneur, and the business man had, notwithstanding the differences of age and of position, a large experience of analogous circumstances.

They knew of what presence of mind a courageous woman was capable, when surprised, as was the Venetian.  All these have declared since that they had never imagined more admirable self-possession, a composure more superbly audacious, than that displayed by Madame Steno, at that decisive moment.  She appeared on the threshold of the French window, surprised and delighted, just in the measure she conformably should be.  Her fair complexion, which the slightest emotion tinged with carmine, was bewitchingly pink.  Not a quiver of her long lashes veiled her deep blue eyes, which gleamed brightly.  With her smile, which exhibited her lovely teeth, the color of the large pearls which were twined about her neck, with the emeralds in her fair hair, with her fine shoulders displayed by the slope of her white corsage, with her delicate waist, with the splendor of her arms from which she had removed the gloves to yield them to the caresses of Maitland, and which gleamed with more emeralds, with her carriage marked by a certain haughtiness, she was truly a woman of another age, the sister of those radiant princesses whom the painters of Venice evoke beneath the marble porticoes, among apostles and martyrs.  She advanced to Maud Gorka, whom she embraced affectionately, then, pressing Boleslas’s hand, she said in a voice so warm, in which at times there were deep tones, softened by the habitual use of the caressing dialect of the lagoon: 

“What a surprise!  And you could not come to dine with us?  Well, sit down, both of you, and relate to me the Odyssey of the traveller,” and, turning toward Maitland, who had followed her into the salon with the insolent composure of a giant and of a lover: 

“Be kind, my little Linco, and fetch me my fan and my gloves, which I left on the couch.”

At that moment Dorsenne, who had only one fear, that of meeting Gorka’s eyes—­he could not have borne their glance—­was again by the side of Alba Steno.  The young girl’s face, just now so troubled, was radiant.  It seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from the pretty Contessina’s mind.

“Poor child,” thought the writer, “she would not think her mother could be so calm were she guilty.  The Countess’s manner is the reply to the anonymous letter.  Have they written all to her?  My God!  Who can it be?”